


(en)sign

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, M/M, No beta we kayak like Tim, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Unplanned Pregnancy, except that period never ends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 08:53:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26849218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: In retrospect, Jon should have first suspected something when the cat finally deigned to come home with him.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 124





	(en)sign

**Author's Note:**

  * For [escherzo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/gifts).



> _Disclaimer:_ Nope.
> 
>  _Author’s Note:_ God dammit, escherzo. I don’t know if this means we should talk more or talk less, but this is definitely all your fault. 
> 
> _Warnings:_ Fluff. Surprise pregnancy. Season five? I don’t know her. Written and edited within, like, an hour. I should be asleep. Sorta non-chronological. No beta.

\---

(en)sign

\---

In retrospect, Jon should have first suspected something when the cat finally deigned to come home with him.

(“An en- _sign_ ,” Martin will later snicker, stooping low to scratch her beneath the chin. Jon, in typical Jon fashion, will scoff at the pun, correct Martin’s pronunciation— “no, this is _not_ a ‘calliope’ situation,” — and allow the name to stick.)

-

Months, Jon had been working to coax the stray into a friendship. _Months_. Had tried everything that the internet suggested, everything that had won the Admiral over when she was just a kitten. His efforts had been thorough to the point of obsession: warm blankets and dry boxes left near the heather’s edge; sitting in perfect, unthreatening stillness for far longer than his knees willingly allowed; leaving offerings of kibble and the previous night’s leftovers on the cottage’s porch.

These efforts have accomplished nothing. Well, except for making extra laundry. And leaving Jon aching. And deepening the compost heap. 

“The good cows wouldn’t treat me this way, dammit,” Jon pouts, poking at more than eating his breakfast. 

(The bacon smells… not off. Unappetizing. He slips a bite into his napkin when Martin isn’t looking, both to perpetuate the illusion of eating and to later use to tempt the cat. Maybe it’s fresher food she wants. Jon has read enough statements to understand that desire.) 

Martin hums his agreement. 

“Poor thing is probably feral,” he reminds, in a tone that offers sympathy even as his smile suggests amusement. Jon wants to be annoyed by this, but in Martin’s defense, he _had_ discovered Jon surrounded by piles of printed paper and heavily-denoted library books, looking very much like the neurotic researcher he had been when they first met. Except, of course, that the animal they had been trying to catch back _then_ was a dog. 

(Also, there are probably more easy readers in his spread, this time. There had been a limited selection of cat books available at their village’s local library.) 

Jon grumbles again, cheek falling atop a worn copy of _Kitten: Aspca Pet Care for Kids_. “It hates me.” 

“Untrue. If cats like anything, it’s ceaseless watching,” Martin smiles, lopsided and pretty, and Jon has to squish his face fully into the open pages of _Pet Care For Kids_ to try and compress all the love he feels for Martin into something that fits inside his chest. “It’s not that you’re doing anything wrong, I’m sure. It’s just… It probably needs time. You know?”

(He does.)

-

Time. Why does it always seem to come down to time? Too much time; not enough time; not the right time. How is time both the easiest and hardest thing to get right? To endure? To give? Jon has plenty of it, right now. More hours than he knows what to do with, some days. He would happily offer them all to Martin, but they have both spent so long lost in the cogs of some greater machine; relearning how to be themselves, by themselves, is every bit as important as learning how to function as a singular romantic unit— how to move and connect and come apart and together.

( _Particularly that last thing._ ) 

Jon flushes a bit at his own unintended entendre, mind wandering from the edge of the field where he now crouches and into the gutter. Not that there’s any need to be embarrassed. It’s only him and the cat. And while, sure, the cat may be judging him, she’s a cat— that’s nothing new. 

“Hullo there, miss. Remember me?”

Promptingly, Jon holds out a hand, palm up, fingers crooked. Two weeks ago, such a gesture would have immediately spooked her, would have sent her bolting. One week ago, she had crept back, laid carefully down, and stared at him suspiciously from behind a large stone. That she, today, does neither of these things, but instead continues to gaze at him from five feet away is, if not improvement, at least tangential to that idea. It’s something like movement in the right direction. 

The minutes stretch. The cat does, too. Hunkers for a beat. Straightens again, thinking its enigmatic feline thoughts. Meows, just once. 

Jon melts. 

(With every dark god as his witness, he will befriend this cat or die trying.) 

“ _Pspspsps_ ,” he encourages, hopeful, quiet. His long braid sways as he tips another inch forward, reaches a little further outward, only-just managing not to fall onto all fours. It is a save that calls for a token self-congratulation, Jon decides. Look at him, rescuing himself. Martin would be so impressed. 

It is something of a joke between them, post-Institute. All couples have jokes between them, right? After their escape from Magnus, and their return from the Lonely; between nearly-dropped dishes, tripping in over-sized socks, and almost tumbling from bed during moments of exceptionally intense and pleasant distraction. Though morbid, perhaps, and maybe not exactly healthy, it’s either laugh or cry, as they say, and so he and Martin deliberately snigger, snort, and tease each other over how well they have learned to avoid so many little accidents. And as far as Jon is concerned, managing not to topple over merits the same celebration. Especially since he had woken feeling peaky again, that morning; that single lurch of gravity had threatened to take him over the threshold into pure nausea. 

(“ _So many little accidents_ ,” Jon and Martin will, in two weeks, quote back to one another, half-groaning, half-giggling. Because of course. Of course. For all that they have learned to evade, no one can escape irony.) 

The cat trills a curious sound, tipping her head. Stepping forward. Sniffing.

“Here, kitty. Come on, pretty thing.” 

Another step. Another sniff. She seems more confident now, whiskers twitching beneath bright green eyes. Jon believes he might legitimately tear up when her soft head nudges against his fingertips, and the warm fur of her back tickles the skin of his extended arm.

She is purring. 

“Oh,” Jon breathes, suddenly overwhelmed, and lowers himself into the dew-damp grass at the cat’s unexpected insistence. The instant he has settled, she invites herself into his lap, butting against his shirtfront before nestling close to his belly. 

Jon does not breathe. His soul sings. His heart threatens to burst. His stomach—

(His stomach…) 

“ _Oh_ ,” Jon says again, far less delighted, then turns to vomit on the lawn.

-

And so begins the adopted life of Ensign Byron K Wordsworth.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> ~~Keep an eye out for the sequel that I will never write, where horny pregnant Jon finally gets Martin where he wants him, and Martin is immediately attacked by an overly protective Ensign Byron K Wordsworth.~~


End file.
